


A Work of Art

by mag8657



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: No Magic AU, cute ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 10:19:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18715042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mag8657/pseuds/mag8657
Summary: "The stranger has dark, curly hair that falls just so over his head, the slightest bit of stubble that accentuates his strong jaw and a noticeable dimple in his chin. Quentin then shifts his gaze to the man’s eyes, large and brown and intoxicating, and Quentin thinks that if this man were a painting he’s sure that he could write a million essays about him with ease."Or, Quentin doesn't understand art and Eliot is there to help him feel feelings





	A Work of Art

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first fic I've written in years, and my first Magicians fic. I just wanted to write a little quick, cute thing. 
> 
> I should mention that I don't know much about art and nothing about art history, but I found this painting and used it as inspiration   
> https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/435997?&searchField=All&sortBy=Relevance&what=Canvas&ft=romance&offset=0&rpp=20&pos=2 
> 
> I'd like to write more soon, let me know what you think of this one!

Quentin shuffles through the crowd of people surrounding the entrance to the Met, clutching his bag close to his body to make himself smaller in order to fit through the confined space. Once freed from the hoard of people he lets out a deep breath, eyeing the large room in front of him with absolutely no idea where to go now. His assignment is very vague; find and talk about a piece of art. He’s never been the guy who really gets anything from looking at a painting, and he’s certain he can’t write an entire paper about any old one. Quentin figures his best bet is to look around until he finds something that looks interesting, and make up some story about how it moved him.

He begins walking down a corridor, glancing at the paintings and sculptures around the walls with little interest, turning corner after corner and entering so many rooms he loses count. Still, he can’t find anything “moving.” He tries standing in front of paintings for a few minutes, writing things down, but even those are all very basic observations. Quentin is sure he’s been here for at least 40 minutes with nothing to show for it.

He enters another room, filled with paintings and a few people mulling about, just like all of the others, and finds a painting that looks mildly interesting and walks up to it. He stares at the painting for a minute, still unsure of what art is supposed to make a person feel, and jots down a few basic notes: “good use of movement” “subjects seem to be close” “this guy can actually draw feet, woah” before sighing and dropping his notepad and pen to his sides.

 _This is useless_ Quentin thinks, looking around the room for another possible painting to waste his time studying.

“You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself,” a tall man next to Quentin says suddenly, causing him to jump and turn back.

The stranger has dark, curly hair that falls just so over his head, the slightest bit of stubble that accentuates his strong jaw and a noticeable dimple in his chin. Quentin then shifts his gaze to the man’s eyes, large and brown and intoxicating, and Quentin thinks that if this man were a painting he’s sure that he could write a million essays about him with ease.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, suddenly feeling as though he’s crossed a line by staring so much even though it’s only been 3 seconds, tops, Quentin fumbles, bringing the hand holding his pen to instinctively bring his hair behind his ear.

“I uh- I just, um- I’m not really much into art.” He looks at the ground, internally criticizing himself for never being able to hold a basic conversation.

“If you aren’t into art then the Met doesn’t seem like the place for you” the man says with a slight curve of his lips

“It’s um- I’m here for a project. For school. I need to look at a painting and figure out what it means- uh, to me.”

“And how’s that going so far?” he asks, using his height advantage to try to peer into Quentin’s notebook, but he quickly hides it against his chest ashamed of what this guy- who clearly seems like he knows his way around this place, and art in general, would think of his terrible notes.

“Not great. I think I should just leave and find someone online to tell me what I’m supposed to feel and write about that.” Quentin says with the slightest hint of a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as he once again looks around. But as his eyes fall back to the man beside him, he can’t help but notice that it seems as though the man has yet to look anywhere else but him. And God if his intense stare doesn’t make him look all the more intriguing and interesting.

The stranger laughs softly, low and deep, which is suddenly a sound Quentin wants to hear forever.

“Well that doesn’t seem like it’ll help you progress through your classes,” he says, and Quentin looks down again.

“Yeah I- I just really don’t know what to make of artwork. I’ve never understood how to get a reaction out of something like this.” Quentin admits.

“You can’t force yourself to get a reaction, it just happens, you just have to learn what to look for.”

Quentin looks at the painting, and then back at the man

“I have no fucking clue what I’m supposed to be looking for.”

The man laughs softly again, finally breaking his gaze down to the floor before leveling with Quentin again, taking the slightest step forward and using his entire arm to gesture towards the painting, turning his body with it and inviting Quentin to do the same. He does.

“Why don’t you just look at the painting, and tell me what you see?” the man says in a warm tone, eyes moving between the painting and Quentin, and Quentin takes a deep breath as his eyes fix on the artwork in front of him.

“I see two people,” he begins, eyes flying around the painting, trying to look at all the details, trying to pick up on something that jumps out at him. “They’re running, but they aren’t scared?”

“It’s raining.” The man says, pointing to the placard next to the painting which describes the scene.

“That explains the fabric.” Quentin says, eyes roaming quickly over the words before focusing again on the art itself. “Um, so they’re running, from the rain, to get shelter?” his eyes turn back to the man next to him but he just stares back silently, so Quentin continues, “Um, they’re legs seem to be matching each other’s pace, so I guess they’re in sync, they’re probably close to one another. His… his arm is around her waist, so it’s probably romantic between them.”

He glances at the man again quickly, but when he looks back at the painting he can’t seem to find anything else to describe about it.

“I don’t know, that’s all I’ve got.” He admits

The man turns his body to face Quentin again, looking at him with the same intensity he has since they began talking, and Quentin is starting to think that this man is just always intense.  
“I’m sure you can find more going on here, just keep talking.” He says, and Quentin turns back around, reading the placard before continuing.

“Um well it says that they’re using the girl’s overskirts to shield themselves so she’s just left in her undergarments, so um, I guess that means she’s willing to bare herself that way so they both can stay dry. I guess you could take that to mean she really cares about him and his well being more than she cares about modesty.” Quentin glances at the man again, who only gives him a single nod, an encouragement to keep going, Quentin sighs, trying harder to find more going on.

“She’s- well she’s looking out into the rain like she’s annoyed, and the guy, he’s… he’s looking at her,” Quentin pauses, looking harder at the painting “He doesn’t seem annoyed by the rain, he’s just looking at her like- like he loves her and is just glad to be around her, no matter the unfortunate situation. And his hand on her waist, it’s not soft, it’s strong, like he really wants to keep her close and- and comfortable and warm.” Quentin says, imagining that hand around his waist and thinking about the comfort that would come from a strong, steady hand like that.

“And I guess it just shows what they’re thinking about, you know? She’s upset about the rain, and the cold, and having to run home or wherever, but him. He just seems to be in love and happy and…” Quentin stops, his heart beating faster both at the thought of that feeling of love and happiness and also because he’s finally begun to get an actual emotion to an artwork, and he looks back to the man beside him, and sees the softest smile on his lips and a warm look in his eyes, and for a moment Quentin feels like he’s proud of him for his little breakthrough, and Quentin smiles.

“Well. I don’t know about you but I think that sounds like the perfect response for an assignment.” The man says

“Thank you,” Quentin replies “For helping me. I was honestly hopeless.”

“I don’t think anyone’s hopeless when it comes to art, they might just need a little push.” The man smiles softly back at him “I’m Eliot, by the way.” He says, holding out his hand.

“Quentin,” he says, shaking it with his own. And his hand is just like his voice, soft and warm, and his handshake is firm, which makes sense due to how confident the man, Eliot, seems, and Quentin hides his wide grin by staring down at the floor as he releases his grip. He puts his notebook back into his bag and looks back up at Eliot. “Thank you, again.”

“Any time,” Eliot says smoothly, and Quentin walks away backwards for a few steps, his eyes still on the tall man and his perfect hair, before turning away with a small wave and leaving the room.

And as he walks back to his apartment he thinks of Eliot’s hand, warm and comforting, on his waist guiding him through the crowded sidewalks of New York just like in the painting.


End file.
